


july forever

by TrulyCertain



Series: Shield Raised [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, silliness and angst, the "angry young men" au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 14:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: These visiting Tevinters are going to be fundamental for trade. The Trevelyans' son is under no circumstances to do anything stupid or inappropriate to embarrass the family, like seducing any of their foreign guests. Unfortunately, said Tevinters' son has rather different ideas.The "angry young men have a doomed summer romance" AU.





	july forever

**ostwick. bloomingtide, 9:32 dragon.**

Gal’s pulling up weeds, one after another, making space for new flowerbeds. His mother was appalled. She said he was taking work away from the gardeners; when he asked, the head of them said it was good to have the help and left him to it. He knows what it really is: a Trevelyan can’t be seen getting his hands dirty.  

These days it’s all he wants to do. The house is a mansion, but it feels too small. He can feel eyes on him constantly - his parents’, or servants - and he feels as if he’s taking up too much space. Like he’s all bulk and no purpose. At least in the Chantry, he could put it towards something, and he still does the exercises at night, but here… Here the still air might drive him mad, and he has to do _something_ , keep himself busy. The days are turning sweltering. He’s escaped from the Chantry, but some days he wants to keep running. He thought he was meant to be coming home.

“Galahad!” his mother calls.

It feels like he hasn’t been  _Galahad_ in years. He tries not to wince, and looks over his shoulder. “Is there something - ?”

She picks her way carefully across the lawn, avoiding any mud, then stops next to him and frowns down at him. She’s wearing silks, embroidered ones, rather than her usual daywear. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

He wants to say no, but he has. He always does. There’s always another soiree, another meeting, another round of visitors. He’s nineteen, and he’s heard noblewomen saying things about “eligibility” and “connections” behind their hands. Arranging convenient accidental meetings with their daughters. Part of him wants to tell them they’d have better luck with their sons, but he’s not about to say it to their faces.

He braces himself for a possible tea party, or another ball. “I… What have I forgotten?”

She sighs, and his heart sinks at the look of disappointment on her face. Some days, he wishes it could be different and that he could finally do the right thing. This is one of them. “Our visitors?” Her voice lowers. “Some of them are Tevinter. We’ll have to be careful.”

Now he remembers some of it. Noble families, wanting to establish connections in the south. Trade, or something like it. Some Orlesians, a Fereldan family and some Tevinters. He’s surprised his parents have taken it so well - the Tevinters must be mages, after all, magic and status seem like they go hand-in-hand in the Imperium - and wonders whether that family are particularly rich, or whether they have a noble daughter. Maybe there’s another reason, and his mother has a plan. He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t think he’s ever met a Tevinter.

He says, “Oh.”

“You ought to get changed. They’ll be here any moment.”

He’s standing and brushing off his breeches when the call comes. Life’s like that. Two of the families are here: some of the Orlesians, and the Tevinters. His mother glares at him, and he says, “I’ll go upstairs. I can still…” He knows he’s got a pair of decent formal trousers somewhere.

She nods briskly. “Yes, that would be best.”

It’s a start. He takes the servants’ entrance and heads through the kitchens. He’d run if he didn’t want to be quiet, and if he wasn’t worried about bumping into anyone carrying plates. He gets through them and takes the back stairs. He’s onto the landing, pausing a minute to steel himself for the introductions and small talk before he takes the next flight, when he hears it.

Two sets of footsteps in the hall, and someone says, “Father, you know perfectly well that when I said I wanted to see the Free Marches, this wasn’t what I meant.” Young, clipped and educated. Noble, but there’s a hint of an unfamiliar accent there.

“Take this as an opportunity. There is much to learn here…”

“Yes, I’m sure that  _southern_ cakes are so very different. I can already hear the barbed small talk. Do you think they’ll poison the wine to make us feel more at home?”

It should probably put his back up, but instead Gal just manages to stop himself sniggering. He doesn’t know why. It might be hearing someone who sounds like they’re looking forward to this as much as he is. He finds he’s stopping and looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t know why he takes a step back down, then two. Just enough to see around the corner.

“ _Dorian._ If you cannot be sensible - ”

“It might be a little harder to send me to my room now I’m a grown man and we’re in someone else’s home, but I get the idea. I’ll be on my best behaviour. I promise.”

“See that you are.”

Gal stands high on the stairs, squints down at the hallway and sees robes swishing importantly into the reception room.

Someone’s left behind, and they -  _he_  - stands there, tense like he’s preparing for a fight. He sighs, glancing warily around the room. He’s in robes, too, though they seem simpler than the other ones Gal glimpsed. That’s not saying much: they’re still embroidered with gold thread, and they look like they’re at least part silk, white and something that has a silver sheen. They partly cover one arm; the other Gal can see, and on it is something almost like a bracer, but the leather is engraved and seems like it might be ornamental, as well. Long fingers, with a few big, expensive-looking rings. There’s a very faint thrum of magic in the air - unused, unconscious and quiet, but there. It speaks of a powerful mage who’s not showing it off, or who doesn’t realise they’re announcing themselves in a room before they even open their mouth. Gal doesn’t see a staff, but it seems like there should be one somewhere. This has to be one of the Tevinters.

The stranger happens to look towards the stairs, and pauses. Storm-grey, kohl-lined eyes meet Gal’s.

So the shadows weren’t that deep after all. Gal swallows, suddenly aware that there are still mud and grass stains on the knees of his breeches, and that this is the shirt his mother describes disgustedly as “sackcloth.” Stupid not to consider that the nobles visiting might be handsome - the kind of handsome that’d make him stare in a room and try not to trip over something.

The Tevinter has to be about the same age as Gal. High cheekbones, strong jaw, full mouth. Noble nose. A wryness around his eyes. He doesn’t seem angry about the eavesdropping: he just cocks his head and gives Gal a curious look that’s bright with amusement, like they’re sharing a private joke.

Something tells Gal that this has to be the owner of the voice. He feels his cheeks heat and makes to head upstairs. Better not to harass the guests.

There’s a call from the next room, and the stranger moves to leave. Gal does the same, but he sees the mage glance at him one more time.

He heads up to his room faster than he probably should, wondering if there are going to be questions about the strange servant hovering and listening where he shouldn’t, and what do you mean that’s your son, Lady Trevelyan. He strips down quickly, finds a decent shirt and doublet, and then the trousers. All but throws them on.

He heads downstairs slowly, gritting his teeth.

When he enters the main room, his mother is on what the Orlesians next to her are calling “a  _chaise longue,_ Lady Trevelyan, how lovely.” She’s carefully casual. Her eyes flick to him as he comes in and takes a chair. Seated in the armchairs opposite are three people in robes, holding teacups and watching him with interest. He recognises one of them, and he definitely recognises that silent, bright-eyed assessment.

“My son,” his mother says, gesturing towards him. She almost looks proud. “This is Galahad. Galahad, these are the Du Chalons - Meride, Carl, Elise - and these are the Pavuses.”

He does listen as she introduces them, but he already knows the son’s name. He remembers a frustrated reprimand in the hall. Dorian gives a nod of acknowledgement as his name is spoken, and their eyes meet.

Gal looks away first. He doesn’t know why.

 

 

Six weeks. They’re staying for six weeks. He should have known. He must have been told, but he loses track of time here. He forgets important things, sometimes. Stupid of him.

He’s made his excuses, left his mother and his guests to brandy. He can’t sleep, but he’d just be in the way if he stayed there. He heads for the library instead. It’ll be quieter.

He’s stoked up the fire, found his favourite armchair and is partway through  _A History of the Second Blight_ when he hears someone enter the room. He has a feeling he knows who it is.

“Is that the Genitivi edition, or the Florind?”

He looks at the youngest Pavus, who’s leaning against the wall, watching him with interest, and he says, “Genitivi. I’ve heard his scholarship is better.”

Pavus nods approvingly. “I’ve heard the same. Less Chantry rhetoric.” Straightening, he adds, “But excuse me for intruding. I was told you had a rather fine library.” He looks around. “I want to say something about how they were wrong and Imperial grandeur, so on, but I’m actually impressed.”

Gal sighs, returning his eyes to his book. “Don’t let my mother hear you. She might install some kind of plaque. And you’re welcome to the books.”

“Evidently. But not to pester you.”

And that makes him look up. “I… It’s not pestering. I don’t mind.” He should, but he doesn’t.

“Careful. You’ll regret that once I’ve started.” Pavus takes an armchair opposite Gal’s, laying his cloak over the back of it before he sits. “You don’t seem too thrilled about this joint venture.”

Gal shrugs. “Don’t know much about it.”

“Neither do I. Frankly, I think I was just dragged here to keep me out of trouble.”

Gal can’t help laughing under his breath.

“What?” Pavus says, amused.

Gal looks up and regrets it. Dor - Pavus might be even more handsome than the brief impressions in the sitting room had let him remember, especially relaxed and watching him with that cheerfully arrogant half-smile. He tries to find… words. Words are good. “That’s usually what I’d say.”

Dorian leans an elbow on the chair-arm, watches him with that curiosity again. “And what kinds of trouble are there in Ostwick?”

Gal’s mouth goes dry. No. Not a good idea. Especially talking to someone he barely knows, who’s leaving in a month and might well be appalled at the way he chooses to spend some of his nights. “Not many. But some, if you know where to look. What about Tevinter?”

“Tevinter is rather large. If we’re talking about the Qarinus sort of trouble, I usually find enough to sufficiently embarrass my parents.” A shadow crosses his face, then it’s gone. “It’s a burden, being quite so interesting.” Then he’s standing, making his way towards the stories and mythology. “Hmm.  _Tales of the Black Fox._ I don’t think it’s ever quite caught on at home. Of course, there you just have to ensorcel someone into willingly giving you all their money, but that lacks a certain flair.”

Gal can’t help himself. “Does that happen often?”

“Not often - there are wards and counterspells, the rich are surprisingly fond of  _staying_ rich - but sometimes.” Pavus looks over his shoulder. “I can hear you thinking. If it helps, we’re not a blood magic sort of family. It makes me unpopular at dinner parties.” He mutters something that sounds like  _Amongst other things,_ before turning to frown at Gal. “Galahad, was it?” It’s strange to hear his name in that wry, dark voice.

Gal sighs. “Gal, unless you’re my mother.”

Pavus raises an eyebrow, looking too amused, then it falls and he gives the slightest bow of his head. “Dorian, as you heard.” He looks back to the shelves. “Now, Gal…” He says it slowly, like he’s trying it out on his tongue and finding the sound interesting. “Do you have any recommendations?”

Gal considers it. “ _Black Fox_ is well-regarded.  _Marcher Legends_ is one of my father’s favourites.”

“What about yours?”

Gal hesitates, and then says, “ _Tales of the Avvar.”_ He doesn’t know why he isn’t suggesting something more neutral, rather than the book he’s thumbed through so many times it’ll probably fall apart before long. He doesn’t know the reason for that, either. Something about the warriors, and… clarity of purpose. He was probably meant to find that in the Chantry, but it was more the opposite.

Dorian nods, and there’s a hiss of leather as he slides the small, battered book from the shelf and examines it. “Interesting.” Despite his casual, almost disinterested tone, his hands are careful.

When Gal looks up, it turns out that Pavus reads with that same intent, silent focus, like he’s dissecting every word, examining it and then putting it back together without even having to try.

Gal’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed he’s not the subject of that gaze; he can feel it down his spine from here.

When he goes to bed, Pavus is still reading.

 

 

Gal’s working on the vegetables the next day when a shadow falls over him and a familiar voice says, “Tell me, do all nobles do their own gardening in the Marches? It’s been plaguing me since we met.”

“Was it a meeting?” Gal sighs, transplanting another carrot. “I intruded on a private conversation and then ran for it.”

“Whatever it was, it was terribly quaint. Certainly an interesting introduction.”

Gal shakes his head at that. “And… no. Only ones with too much time on their hands.”

“What, did the Chantry have more to do?”

Gal just sighs. “Who told you?”

“Your mother mentioned you’d been in training. She seemed very proud.” Pavus pauses. “You… less so. Can we pretend I haven’t put my foot in it?”

“You haven’t. I just… It’s not something I’m good at talking about.”

“Evidently. I had a question: is it true that templars here practice a sort of, well…” The brief flash of a smile, and Pavus pauses, running a hand over his mouth. “…magic?”

Gal stands, and wipes his brow, and considers it. He could probably refuse to answer the question, or evade it. But it’s… it’s an interesting question. He suddenly wonders how different Tevinter templars are. “They’d hate to hear it called that, and honestly, I don’t know. I think it’s Fade-sensitivity or… something. We’re not  _mages._ We can’t summon, or… conjure. We just block spells, or… Mages pull things from the Fade, and we… we send things back there. Push them out of the real world again. But we often come from mage families. I have cousins somewhere…”

Somewhere in Gal’s bloody fumbling, he realises Pavus is watching him, arms crossed but face open and interested, as if he’s on to a solid idea. “You think it’s something in the blood?”

Gal tenses, scratching at his stubble, then goes back to work. Starts digging. “I don’t know. I asked once, and I was firmly told it… wasn’t for discussion. That I shouldn’t compare servants of Andraste and the Maker to…” He looks at the mage in front of him, who’s just standing, watching him with that steady, calm interest. Or at least, it  _looks_ calm. He suddenly knows that this could be a very bad idea. “All I know is that a lot of them had handed in their own siblings to be… taken.”

Something crosses Pavus’ face, and the noble’s impassivity has gone. In his eyes is a silent, white-hot rage, and Gal suddenly wonders if that’s what’s always been hiding underneath pointed sarcasm and frustration. It’s amazing that the Veil isn’t thinning, and it points to an almost scary amount of control - or to someone who doesn’t  _have_ to fight for control. “They did that willingly?”

Gal thinks about living as a mage without the threat of templars round every corner. He can’t even imagine it, not really. “Some.” He kicks some more earth into place. “Some only joined so they could learn how to hide their families better. From the inside.”

“I’m… beginning to have an inkling of which kind you were.”

Gal looks up in surprise. Pavus is watching him with that focused, sharp interest, and something that looks like… respect. He almost wants to shrink from it. “I didn’t have family to hide.”

“But you preferred those who did.”

Gal shrugs. Digs. “Some of us were handed in too. Did my mother mention why I left?”

Pavus frowns, but there’s a smile creeping in that says he’s caught where this is going. “She said she’d called you back home for family business.”

“Or I escaped.” Gal keeps working and tries to keep his face straight. “I’ve never been much of a good templar.”

Pavus’ smile is a true one now, bright and with a little mischief in it - the kind where Gal’s control breaks and he can’t help but smile back. “I can tell.”

Sighing, Gal says, “But the Chantry was… more drills. No gardening. Fewer marriage proposals.” He mutters, “Don’t know why people seem to queue.”

“You don’t?” Pavus says. He looks Gal up and down, so briefly it’s easy to miss, and raises an eyebrow.

And for a second Gal wonders… No. He hasn’t read that right. He’s covered in dirt and sweating and Pavus is… Pavus. So he returns to digging, feeling heat rise in his cheeks and trying to force it down. “Has my mother sent you?”

“I’m here of my own accord. To warn you, actually. The rest of the Orlesians have arrived.” Pavus adds cheerfully, “Brace yourself.” He wanders off, still too pleased with himself.

Gal watches him go, not certain whether he wants to laugh, to throttle him or… other things. Things that are a bad idea to think about.

 

 

Sure enough, Gal’s walking through one of the corridors later on when there’s a high-pitched call of, “Lord Trevelyan!”

He’s pretty sure Lord Trevelyan is his father. But he hears the clicking of high-heeled footsteps, and he knows that he can’t just run away. (For a start, his mother would kill him.) He sighs while has a second, while they can’t see, and then turns.

Three women - young, maybe his age. One of them gasps at the sight of him, a hand to her mouth.

He tries not to shrink. One of the useful things the Chantry taught him is how to stand tall, to raise his chin and be selectively deaf.

The woman at the front turns, obviously glaring at her, and then looks back to him. She smiles, or tries to. She’s pretty, he supposes: red-haired, a little shorter than average. She curtseys. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Your mother has told me much about you. Monique du Lancy.” He’s heard the name before - she’s probably the daughter of a duchess or somesuch. She watches him, seeming nervous. She’s probably stuck in the same situation he is: some nice young noble, about your age, wouldn’t they make a fine match, quickly, ingratiate yourself before you’re disowned… He’s not about to make life harder for her.

He nods in return and attempts a smile. “Galahad Trevelyan.” He adds, trying not to wince, “Gal.” He doesn’t know why he corrects himself so often, but he’s been  _Gal_ since he was fourteen. It’s easier.

The second girl steps forwards - he remembers her from last night - and says, “Elise du Chalons.” Then, “Is it true you were to be a templar?”

“I… I was in training for a time.” He braces himself, looking away before his face betrays him.

It’s then that the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He knows when there are eyes on him. He glances around, subtle as he can. And he sees it: a glint of gold and silk in the shadows. Dorian’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed, watching all this with casual interest. Their eyes meet.

He tries not to flush. Embarrassment and self-consciousness prickle up his spine, and he’s not sure why. He looks back to the Orlesians.

“My mother likes piety,” she’s saying. “She often donates to the Chantry.”

“Elise…” Monique says quietly, looking worried.

Elise ignores her. “She will like you, when you are introduced.” She gives him a once-over: obvious, possessive. It puts his back up. “Very much. Of course, there will have to be a proper introduction. We cannot intrude on your family’s hospitality without showing our gratitude.” She pretends to think it over. “Perhaps dinner would be sufficient. I may have room in my schedule…”

Quiet footsteps, and then there’s a hand on his arm. Dorian looks at him and says, “I’m sorry to intrude, but your father’s asking for you.”

It’s obvious Elise is gritting her teeth. “Monsieur Pavus.” She looks back to Gal. “Another time.”

“Another time,” he returns, numb with relief.

He nods to the other two, and then sets off the way they came. Less likely to run into them again. He feels Dorian fall into step with him, and tries his best to ignore the hushed, rapid stream of Orlesian that starts when he’s a couple of feet past them.

(“ _Have you seen his face? The ink?”_

“ _Angelie, be kind.”_

“ _He looks like some sort of…”_ It takes him a second to translate the next word. “ _Barbarian. It is hideous. Almost… Fereldan.”)_

“Thank you,” he says, when they’re out of earshot. The timing was too convenient, and his father’s not one to give jobs to guests.

Dorian’s still clearly listening to the Orlesians, his eyes distant and something crossing his face that might be anger. He looks to Gal and brightens. “Not at all. You looked like you needed rescuing.” Concern crosses his face, and he says, “Are you all right?”

Gal’s surprised at the question and the show of worry, but answers, “…A little harrowed.” It’s only half a joke.

Dorian laughs. “I did warn you.” Then he says with the hint of a sigh, “It was a familiar predicament.”

Gal sighs. “Is your mother a ferocious matchmaker?”

Dorian ducks his head, his smile falling, and for a moment he almost looks like he’s regretting bringing this up. Then he’s saying, his chin high and his confidence back in place, “My parents are holding off on the nagging until I’ve attained enough academic status that they can boast about their brilliant son. There have, however, been some… strong hints.”

“And are you?” Gal prods.

Dorian raises a brow. “Am I what?”

“Brilliant,” Gal says, with a grin.

Dorian holds his gaze and says, with that studied casualness, “I can hold my own, if that’s what you’re asking. And probably everyone else’s, if it comes to it.” He tilts his head, and something roguish creeps into his expression. “Why, what do you think?”

This is dangerous territory. In the end, Gal settles for: “I think you’re… unusual.” He adds, with a look askance, “And modest.”

A quiet laugh. Dorian says, “I’ll take that as a compliment.” After a pause, he continues, “I think I’ve just learned the Orlesian for ‘maleficar magister.’”

“You don’t look much like a maleficar,” Gal says.

Dorian snorts. “And you don’t look much like a ‘Fereldan barbarian.’ Neither am I a magister. Ignore them. It’s the usual frightened pecking at things they don’t understand.”

Gal’s spent enough time with people trapped by station and obligation to hear the resentment under the joke. “I could tell you the same.”

Sighing, Dorian looks away and pretends to examine the walls. “I know. That should help, shouldn’t it?” It’s there again: that quiet sadness that’s fast hidden, anger grafted on top of it to look less obvious. On anyone else, Gal would say it was… lonely.

No. It’s lonely on Dorian too.

It’s gone before Gal can say anything. Dorian lifts his chin with an old-money sniff, and says, “Now, your father didn’t call for you. Mine, however, will be looking for me soon.”

Dorian starts to move, and Gal takes his arm. Probably a bad idea, but…

Dorian blinks, something wary in his eyes, his throat working. Gal suddenly wonders if friends aren’t something you’re allowed in Tevinter.

Gal says, quietly, “I meant it. Thank you.”

Dorian nods, still looking like he doesn’t know what to do with thanks. “Just earning my keep,” he says. He’s halfway down the corridor before Gal can say anything - long strides, and the ease is settling back into his gait. It’s the first time that’s seemed practised.

 

 

Gal pauses to roll up his sleeves, cursing, and then carries on. He’s working on weeds again - it’s always bloody weeds - when someone clears their throat behind him. He turns, half-expecting an Orlesian, and comes face-to-face with a curious Tevinter instead.

“Good morning,” Dorian says. He squints past Gal, raising an eyebrow. “Do you have something against dandelions in particular?”

Gal examines his work. “I didn’t think so, but…” He wipes his brow and then looks back to Dorian. “This bloody heat. It makes it hard to think.”

Dorian raises a brow. “Here I was relieved the weather had finally been decent.” He moves to the wall, and when he returns, it’s with Gal’s mug. He taps a finger against it, and Gal hears the faint sound of ice. “Here. Hopefully this should help.”

Gal takes it warily, and then raises it to his mouth. He closes his eyes when he tastes water, as he expected, but spell-cold. He takes a grateful swig. Presses the cup against his forehead afterwards, with a low sound of relief. “Thank you,” he says, when he opens his eyes.

Dorian nods, still watching him curiously. Something crosses his face and he looks like he’s just had an idea, but he says nothing.

Gal slumps back against the wall. He’s surprised when Dorian joins him, probably getting moss and dirt on those fancy robes. But he looks and realises that those… aren’t robes. He squints at what looks like a shirt and breeches, but high-collared, embroidered and with a few more buckles than necessary. Tries not to pay attention to broad shoulders and strong thighs that weren’t as obvious before.

“What?” Dorian says, crossing his arms.

Gal hastily looks away, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Too informal for you? Am I committing some sort of grievous offence against Marches fashion?”

“I…”  _I like it._ “Too warm for robes?”

Dorian half-smiles. “Something like that.” He looks out to the horizon, and says, “I wanted to thank you. Not many have been welcoming of a Tevinter stranger. And were our positions reversed, I doubt the Imperium would have treated you as generously.” He says that with the hint of a sigh.

“What do you mean?” Gal asks.

“The Imperium doesn’t take kindly to foreigners. It likes to act as if there’s no need for external trade, or diplomacy. Oh, it occasionally pretends to be welcoming, but visitors who ask too many questions have a bad habit of ending up dead. My family are attempting to do differently, but we’re… far from representative.”

Frowning, Gal says, “You almost sound ashamed of the place.”

Dorian’s silent for a second, two, and then says, “I shouldn’t have to be.” A definite sigh. “But that’s far from my point. I intended to say that I’ve intruded on your hospitality, and you’ve taken it remarkably well.”

“You’re not intruding.” At Dorian’s curious look, Gal says, “I… like talking to you.” He grins so he doesn’t have to linger on the truth. “Especially when you chill my drinks.”

“Ah, now you see. Mages have their uses. I have no idea why you lock them in towers when they could be out impressing the  _soporati_ with party tricks.”

“Agreed. It’s one reason I never became a templar.” Gal pauses. “ _Soporati?_ Is that what I am?”

Something like guilt crosses Dorian’s face. “Roughly, yes. Those without magic. It’s not always derogatory…”

“’Those who sleep.’” Gal looks at Dorian levelly.

“I never said I  _agreed._ After all, you didn’t run at me with a sword shouting  _maleficar_ when we met.”

“True.” Gal looks out, towards the woods, and adds casually, “It’s just odd to hear about the plight of prisoners from someone who probably keeps slaves.”

Dorian glares at him. “A slave in the Imperium has a damn sight more choice than a Southern mage. Show me one Tower mage who can buy their freedom.” He straightens. “And I personally don’t, no.”

Gal grunts. “Can see why blood magic is such a problem. They already think it’s natural to own people. Why bother with the money?”

“It isn’t  _ownership_ in that sense. I don’t see how you can equate…” Dorian pauses. “Is that what you think? That the two are as bad as each other? For a start, one can be voluntary - ”

“A contract based on desperation isn’t fair.”

“And it isn’t as if you’re buying someone’s  _soul.”_

“Telling someone who they are. Taking their pride, their future and their hope. As good as.”

“It’s accepted in the Imperium. It’s a way of self-betterment.”

“At the cost of everything you are.”

Dorian looks away. “I admit, I’d never thought about it until I came here. You don’t question it when you live with it. Would you ask why the ground is under your feet?”

Gal tilts his head. “I might. I get the sense you might, too.”

“I… You’ve given me something to think about. And I  _will_ think on it.”

Gal nods.

“I can see why you wouldn’t have been too popular in the Chantry.” Dorian sighs, and then says, “I like talking to you, too. Even when you’re interrogating me about the intricacies of Tevinter life.”

Gal mutters, “Bad habit of mine.”

“ _Interesting_ habit. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re full of mysteries.” Dorian steps to stand in front of him, makes a show of examining him. “You have a lot of anger for a man who gardens. In fact, is that why you garden? Is all this tearing up of roots somehow cathartic?”

“No. That’s the boredom.”

“Boredom? I had the sense your life is full of soirees and fascinating foreign visitors.”

Gal grunts. “Isn’t yours?”

With a low laugh, Dorian replies, “My studies are getting in the way of all the mingling and swanning about I should be doing. I think my mother wanted me married off by twenty-four, but my father has told her to adjust her expectations.” He sees Gal’s questioning look and adds, “She may yet be successful. We still have four years to see.”

Twenty. Gal stores that away and pretends not to. Then he says, “You don’t sound very convinced.”

Dorian sighs, leaning his head back against the wall and swallowing. There’s discomfort in his face and his body - Gal can tell when someone’s skirting a truth they don’t want to tell. “There are… certain fundamental obstacles that would make marriage difficult. I have no intention of removing them. Things are different in the Imperium. You wouldn’t understand.” Then he pauses, thoughtful, and those keen eyes land on Gal. “Or perhaps you would.”

Gal tries not to feel the weight of that regard, or to pay much attention to the line of Dorian’s jaw, the piece of throat suddenly bared. (He never thought he’d call a Tevinter mage  _vulnerable,_ even if just in his own head.) He tries not to look at the fear and worry in Dorian’s eyes, and the… appraisal.

He tells himself he’s imagining things. Wishful thinking started by a pretty face and something interesting happening in this bloody place.

“ _Dorian!_ You’re needed inside.” The call comes from the lawns. Another of those sharp, noble Tevinter accents.

Dorian drawls, “Speaking of my mother,” before unfolding himself from the shadow of the wall and sauntering off.

Gal watches him go, taking a mouthful of quickly warming water and trying not to appreciate the view.

 

 

He’s doing Chantry exercises in the library: stretches, mainly. It’s the only place that’s out of the sun and is quiet. Garden work has been harsh on his shoulders and back, and he’s started getting himself flexible beforehand, and afterwards. It’s different, in some ways harsher than a fight. He’s been raking, and everything from his neck down to the small of his back is killing him. Besides, moving helps him not to think about that moment with Dor - Pavus. Or all the other ones when he’s wondered…

Normally it would be something close to easy. He’d ask the question and get it out of the way, have an answer. It’s simple when it’s about boredom and a roll in the hay, and he won’t have to see them the next day, until the next soiree. When they both know it doesn’t mean much. Normally he’d be able to  _talk,_ because he wouldn’t be afraid of a  _no -_ that’d just be something else to shrug and move on from, because it wouldn’t matter. Normally the words wouldn’t stick in his throat and he wouldn’t stumble, too comfortable and trying not to be, the way he hasn’t been since…

He tries not to think of the Chantry and getting his heart broken. Tries even harder not to think of it in the same sentence as Dorian. It’s been a day and a half since they last talked - properly talked, not just nods at the breakfast table - and he’s spent it being careful. Distracting himself, trying not to -

“Ah. Just the man I was looking for.”

He turns, steeling himself - or he tries, but the steel falls away at the smile on Dorian’s face. There’s no performance or arrogance in it, and it’s bright. It warms Gal until he feels like he’s been standing in the Ostwick sun. Dorian almost looks like he belongs here, in green robes, only the glint of gold and silver from the bracers and jewellery giving him away. When Gal thought of mages from Tevinter, he imagined black, and spikes - not such brightness, and colour. There’s something tucked under Dorian’s arm, and Gal recognises that battered spine and faded lettering.

He says, “You were looking for me?”

“I came to return this.” Dorian offers  _Tales of the Avvar_.

Gal takes the book, and… “Magic stretches to book repairs?” He examines the spine, running a finger over it, and then looks back up.

Something in Dorian’s smile, the way he looks away and rocks back slightly on his heels, is almost bashful. Sometimes Gal thinks Dorian doesn’t have shame or embarrassment in him, and then he’s proven wrong again. “Sadly, no. But I’ve had enough much-needed tomes fall apart on me to learn a few things.”

Gal opens it, slowly and carefully. It’s stupid, but he’s glad the pages still smell the same: like being eleven and sitting at the foot of a shelf while his father plans a fishing trip, dust motes floating past him in his own ray of sunshine. Like life before the Chantry, and after. “Thank you,” he says, quiet and too reverent. He closes it, and his hand still traces over the cover before he lays it on a side table. “You could have just put it back on a shelf.”

“But then how would I show off my good deed? And it gives me an excuse.” When Gal tilts his head and raises a brow, Dorian explains, “To talk to you, of course. It’s you or the Orlesians. Or, Maker forbid…” Dread crosses Dorian’s face. “…My parents.”

“What about the Fereldans?”

“They keep glaring at me and muttering about blood magic. When they’re not complaining about the heat.”

“They’re right about the heat,” Gal sighs.

Dorian examines him, pretending concern. “You look exhausted. It must be all the strange contortions.”

Gal looks at Dorian levelly. “Mages stretch too.”

Dorian’s smile returns. “That they do. But we have a slight advantage.” He reaches out a hand, and then stops. “May I?”

Gal can feel something changing in the Veil, and he has no idea what he’s getting into, but he nods all the same.

“Trust me,” Dorian says, with a bit of a laugh in it, probably the beginning of a quip.

“I do,” Gal replies quietly, before he can stop himself.

He sees the surprise cross Dorian’s face before it’s quickly hidden, but then a hand presses against his forehead, cool with ice magic and something that feels like a rejuvenation spell, and his eyes close. The magic is like biting into the first strawberries picked in the heat - surprising and a little tart, then it sweetens, soothes. The flavour lingers under his tongue.

Gal exhales at the feeling as it spreads. It’s relief, pure and simple.

Dorian says, “I wondered whether the combination would work.” He adds, “I learned something from my reading, by the way.”

Gal opens his eyes and asks, “What did you learn?” His voice is still a little rough.

Dorian’s response is casual. “Apparently Avvar warriors decorate their faces before going into battle. War paint, and sometimes tattoos.” His fingers trace a line of ink on Gal’s forehead, trailing magic. “Intricate things. To scare opponents, or to provoke admiration from allies.” His hand settles on a line that spans Gal’s cheek, and he follows that one, too. “Which are these for?” His eyes are dark, the grey nearly black.

Gal tries to focus past the spell, and proximity. Tries not to think about leaning across and finding out if Dorian tastes like the magic. “Talking point at dinner parties,” he manages.

Dorian laughs, and the spell’s broken, in both senses. He steps back, glances at the trees. “Quite the icebreaker, I’d imagine.”

Gal’s left lightheaded and trying to put a sentence together. He can’t, even in his own head. Eventually he comes out with: “You wanted to see the Free Marches…”

Dorian tilts his head and waits. It’s obvious they’re both remembering that first moment in the hallway. “I wasn’t aware you’d been listening for that long.”

Heat prickles up Gal’s neck, and it’s nothing to do with the sun. “Didn’t mean to. I was just… there.” He sighs. “It’s market day tomorrow, and I need to get out of here.” He always does, but market day’s a good excuse.

“Are you asking me to come with you?”

Gal sighs. “I’m asking if you want to.”

Dorian makes a show of considering it. “I’ve nothing pressing to do, and my father would probably say something about it being educational. Why not?”

 

 

The market is smell, and noise. The smell of the fish, and the sound of the crowds, the calls of the sellers. They pass a couple of women selling cheap battered amulets that “offer Andraste’s protection.” Gal has his doubts. Even in sunlight, there’s a baked grime to everything: it’s grey or it’s brown, with flashes of colour. Fish-scales, or silks, or the red of meat, or the bright potions sold by the apothecary. People collide with him sometimes, knocking shoulders, with apologies or without.

He feels better here, where there’s wind in his hair and he can watch the sea, than he ever has in clean linens and empty halls. Maybe that means he’s not much of a Trevelyan. He’s not sure he minds.

Dorian’s looking around with sharp-eyed interest. He’s wearing the simpler clothes of before rather than robes, and most of the usual jewellery’s gone, though Gal spots the glint of a chain tucked under his shirt. Wearing it for sentimental value rather than appearances.

Dorian falls into step with him, strolling like this is just another day in the Imperium. Only that curiosity and the way he takes it all in betray that this is new.

Gal says, “What are the markets like in the Imperium?”

Dorian says, voice soft, “I was just thinking, actually… it’s nice to see that it’s only  _things_ on sale.”

Gal gives him a questioning look.

“Not people. Fewer slaves being sold.” He swallows. “I hadn’t… realised. It’s different.” He’s trying too hard for brightness when he adds, “Oh, and fewer poisons. Fewer bushy-eyebrowed magisters trying to make sure you leave with nothing in your pockets.”

Gal gives him a small smile. “The eyebrows and the prices are probably the same. Maybe not the magic.”

The darkness clears from Dorian’s eyes, and he surveys the market again. “Mm. You know, I think I prefer this. Other than the lack of anti-stink wards.”

Gal spots his favourite breadseller and puts a hand on Dorian’s arm. When he goes, it’s with a quiet Tevinter shadow.

“Morning, Cara,” he says.

Cara is blonde, freckled, and makes the best bread Gal’s found anywhere. “Morning,” she says, smiling at him. “I’ve got a loaf of the seeded stuff left somewhere…” She pauses, seeing Dorian, and hesitates. “Who’s your friend, ser?”

Gal glances to his side. “Dorian? He’s a guest.”

Dorian says smoothly, “He’s been too polite to kick me out.”

She laughs slightly at that. “Oh, I’m sure you’re no trouble.”

“That’s what I said. He doesn’t seem to agree.”

“Oh?” She blinks at Gal, amused. “I always thought you looked like a good host.” She looks back to the loaves, her cheeks pinkening, and makes a show of looking for the right bread.

“I  _am_ ,” he protests. “The problem’s my choice in guests.”

She straightens with the seed-loaf and gives him a half-grin, ducking her head. “Here you are, ser.”

Gal doesn’t need to ask the price by now. “Thank you.” He tucks it under his arm and hands her the coin, with some extra. The bread and the service are worth it. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Hope so,” she says.

When they’re out of earshot, Gal says, “She liked you.”

Dorian replies airily, “Of course she did. Everyone does.”

Gal concedes that with a tilt of his head. “Makes sense. It’s not like she’s blind. Or deaf.”

“Was that… a compliment? And I was certain you were oblivious to my finer qualities.”

Later he’ll think it was because he was distracted by what looked like a decent shield. “Do you want a list?” he mutters.

There’s a half-second’s surprised pause, then: “I wouldn’t mind one. It would be a long list, mind you.” Dorian spots something on one of the apothecary stalls and says, “Allow me a moment.”

Gal’s turning over the shield, thinking that it’s not as decent as it looked, when Dorian reappears, muttering, “An utter fraud. If that’s elixir of sulphur then I’m Archon.”

“So you’ve met Archibald.” Gal looks over a sword, testing the weight of it. His current blade’s better.

“The man with three teeth who’s selling cut-price poisons? Yes, we met. Briefly.”

Gal nods his thanks at the seller and moves on. “Offer him half the price he asks for, and don’t take it if it’s for a stomach upset.”

They keep going. Dorian examines more potions and food and jewellery, quietly curious. It’s still strange to see him hanging back, or so quiet. It’s not a bad kind of quiet. It’s interested observation.

“Gal,” he says, after a while, “do you have any more advice?”

Gal looks at the stall they’ve paused next to. “Try the tarts. Trust me.”

“The – which?”

Dorian has a point. There are a lot of sweets and pastries here. Gal gestures to the strawberry ones; he doesn’t know why. They’re the first ones that come to mind.

The seller eyes Dorian suspiciously but relents once she sees Gal, and relents even further once Dorian brings silver out of his pocket and asks Gal for further recommendations. By the time Dorian’s smiling and asking her with genuine, head-tilted interest what her own favourites are, the seller’s smiling despite herself.

Afterwards, they end up drifting to sit on a wall. In front of them is the sea, the sun glinting off it, and there’s a breeze ruffling Dorian’s hair as he sits his purchases on his lap and unwraps cloth. He matter-of-factly holds a tart out to Gal. It doesn’t look like forced politeness; more like  _This is your fault, so you might as well enjoy the fruit of your labours._

Gal pauses.

Dorian raises a brow and inclines his head towards the pastry, and Gal lasts a second before taking it.

Gal bites into his own, and… Strawberry. He remembers. He remembers the bright sweetness of Dorian’s magic, the way he could  _taste_ it when Dorian laid hands on him. He drags his gaze back to the sea, and uses every ounce of Chantry training he’s had not to blush. He tries to drag his mind away from spells and the darkening grey of Dorian’s eyes, more obvious that close. Or the way Dorian leaned in.

He’s distracted by a startled, approving noise next to him as Dorian tries one. “I thought flavour was outlawed in the South,” Dorian says, when he can speak. He sounds betrayed, but happy to be.

Gal grins a bit smugly at the sea. The weather’s decent, and the water’s glinting, so blue it could be a painting. “The Marches are good for sweets, and for honey. Even when everything else is…” He tilts his head, and makes a low, dismayed noise in his throat.

Dorian snorts. “Evidently.”

There’s a silence, comfortable and warm. Gal hasn’t had one like it in a long time, and that thought makes him glance back to Dorian.

And Dorian quickly looks back to the stalls, like he was watching… something he shouldn’t have been watching. There might be some colour in his cheeks. Then he brushes away crumbs and wraps the rest of the tarts up quickly. He frowns, too intent on it for such a small job, strong fingers working fast and elegantly. “Right. We ought to keep going. You haven’t shown me everything yet.”

“This is a tour?” Gal says, standing.

“Only if you want it to be,” Dorian responds instantly, with a wry half-grin.

Gal finds himself returning it. It feels like it’s been a long time since he smiled this much. Probably not since he returned to the estate. He refuses to let that mean anything. “Come on, then.”

They slide back into step with each other. They take it slow, meandering and wandering to look at things. He loses time; having Dorian next to him is easy, even with the questions and sidelong quips, and he thinks they spend a couple of hours there.

He doesn’t know when they end up drifting onto the beach. It’s quieter here, the noise of the market fading. All he can really hear is the sea, the sand and pebbles, and the sounds of silk and leather as they walk.

Quieter than that is the thoughtful silence next to him. Dorian keeps throwing him glances and thinking he hasn’t noticed. Eventually, Dorian says, “You’re… different here. More comfortable.”

Gal shrugs. “I like the sea.” That’s barely half of it, but it’s easier than talking about his parents or the Chantry.

Dorian’s mouth twitches. He obviously knows that wasn’t the whole answer, but he’s not going to push. “Yes, well. That makes one of us. The journey here was… eventful.”

“Seasick?”

Dorian looks at him and pauses, raising a brow. “Will it ruin my dashing image if I say yes?”

“You’ll survive.”

Dorian rubs at the back of his neck, looking back to the water. The humidity and wind’s started to make his hair slightly wilder, and he’s loose, relaxed. Less of the aristocratic disinterest, more of a silent, bright happiness. He’s more… human. Despite the Imperial clothes and the aura round him – maybe because of them – he looks like he could belong here.

Gal thinks, suddenly, that he could get used to this.

Fuck. That’s a thought he can’t have.

Dorian takes a few seconds to speak. “It’s different here, when I look at it this way. Turbulent, but there’s a beauty to it.” He thinks, and then looks back to Gal. “I  _shouldn’t_  like it, all told. Terrible idea. But… I can see why someone might be so fond.”

He isn’t looking at the sea. His eyes are steady on Gal’s, dark and slightly wide, like he didn’t mean to say it either.

Gal swallows, and realises that they’re a ways from the market. Gal can’t see a soul, other than a fisherman who probably can’t see them from that far away.

He steps forwards, and -

Notices the sun’s position. “Bloody - We should have been back an hour ago. My mother had lunch plans. She’ll  _kill me._ ”

Dorian looks something like disappointed, but he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by a wide grin. “I’d hate to be the cause of your untimely demise.”

“Come on.”

They don’t run, but it’s a fast walk. Gal pretends the heat under his skin’s exertion and the sun, and he pretends not to notice Dorian sneaking looks at him.

Cultural education. He’ll say it was about cultural education. 

 

 

 

They make it back in time for lunch, and they don’t get yelled at. He didn’t expect them to. Instead there are strained smiles and polite questions. Dorian answers most of them like they’re formalities, and says nothing about that moment at the beach. Barely looks at him, but does occasionally – it would be noticeable if it was studied ignoring, like any of it mattered. Like there was something to hide.

Gal eats silently except for when he has to speak, and his mother smiles while her eyes tell him in no uncertain terms that when she gets him alone, he’s getting a bollocking. The Pavuses look calm, politely interested but more curious about the salmon.

It turns out that’s a long way from the truth.

He’s on his way to get his rougher clothes for gardening, and he’s walking past one of the guest rooms when he hears, “You were  _alone_ with him?”

“I’m not a helpless kitten, Mother. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I never thought you were. But the templars here are ruthless. Mage-hunters, truly. It isn’t like the Imperium. If they could, they’d kill us for sport. They have power the likes of which - ”

“I  _know._  Enough of them are bastards, but they’re not all like that.”

She scoffs, and suddenly,  she sounds like her son. “Of  _course_ they are. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Not all of them were willing.  _Are_ willing. Surely you’ve heard… This Chantry sources its soldiers from the same place as its mages. It’s as if they’ve missed the old ‘never shit where you eat’ line.”

“Is that what he told you? That he was one of the  _good_ ones, as if there are any. These barbarians believe their quest against us, against magic, is  _righteous._ ”

“No, he didn’t tell me that. He didn’t have to. I don’t think he believes much of anything about the Chantry. Certainly nothing positive.” Dorian inhales, sharply, audible even through a wooden door. It sounds somewhere between wounded and resigned. “It turns out the southern barbarians aren’t so different from us after all.”

“What, because they eat like us?”

“They  _sold him._ His parents.”

Blood rushes to Gal’s face, and he wrenches himself away from the door, turning on his heel and getting as far down the corridor as he can.

 

 

He’s down near the woods, as far from the likelihood of running into people as possible, digging furiously. Digging, and digging. He thinks he was weeding once, where the lawn gave over to tree-shadows. He doesn’t remember.

He digs, knuckles white. Digs. Still white. Maybe he should ink them, or have someone else do it. Something else that’s different now. Something else to make his mother flinch. His, not anyone else’s, his mother and his skin,  _his…_

_Fuck._

He grunts, makes a low, long sound through his teeth, and keeps digging. The thoughts chase each other in frantic, ever faster circles, narrowing and growing worse, and he wants to throw the shovel aside, to hit something to – No. That’d just end up with a broken shovel or him getting  splinters. So he digs.

He hears a high, pained noise, and realises it’s coming from him. He grits his teeth to silence it.

“So I was right.”

He freezes, fingers tightening on the shovel handle.

“It was about anger, the gardening.” It’s still strange to hear Dorian hesitating. “Are you… all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Funny, because you sound like you’ve just been kicked somewhere soft. Kicked very hard. And that spot you’ve been digging for the last five minutes? It didn’t have any weeds in it to start off with.” There’s the low sound of silk, and a few cautious footsteps. “I can leave, if you’d prefer me to.”

No. Part of Gal thinks that this is Dorian’s fault and he ought to see the mess he’s made. More of him wants… the company. This company. Gal swallows, his jaw working. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“My mother… my parents… they needed influence. Favours. The lower cost of not dealing with an heir or spending years training him to be acceptable.”

That inhale, softer here but still pained. “Ah. Listening in, were you?”

“Didn’t mean to be. I was going to my own room.”

“We… weren’t exactly quiet, true. I didn’t mean to – This is my fault, and I’m sorry. Thoughtless of me.” More of those footsteps, and then Dorian’s standing, surveying the hole Gal’s dug, eyes dark and thoughtful. Sad.

“No. I shouldn’t – You were defending me.”

Dorian frowns at him. “Should I not have?”

Gal blinks, breathes, looks back to the turned earth. “I… Thank you.”

“I only told the truth.” Dorian’s voice is firm, like it’s simple.

Gal stares at him, not thinking that’s real. Not knowing how to say… hands shaking with how much he wants to – wants -

Dorian looks back, a little wide-eyed behind the studied casualness. “Tell me I haven’t broken you.”

_I can’t._ “I told you. I’m fine.”

“I…” Dorian looks him up and down, pointedly, frowning. “…almost believe you, at this point. My answer would have been different three or so minutes ago.”

“You haven’t told me anything I didn’t know. I just thought I’d… made too much of it. I’m not used to being told I’m right. I…” Gal’s voice is like sandpaper. “I told you. Thank you.”

Dorian looks surprised and a little pained again – but then he pauses, head tilting. “Surely your lot were worried about you being alone with a mage?” The air lifts. He says it playfully, but the worry’s underneath, not that well-hidden. It’s always underneath.

Gal shrugs, leans the shovel against a tree. “My mother probably thinks I could smite you.” He glances over his shoulder, realising what he’s just -

Dorian raises an eyebrow, idly curious. Even when Gal looks carefully, there’s no fear. “Could you?”

“Doubt it. Not without some serious preparation. And… I wouldn’t want to.” Gal sighs. “Besides, mages should be the least of their worries. At least they’re trying to gain favour with your family, and it’s not like - “ Fuck. No.

Dorian notices his silence. “Not like what?”

“I…” Fuck it. “I spent a lot of time in pubs when I first came here. Or at the docks. Ended up in a lot of bad beds to be seen in.”

Then there’s that sharp tension in the air again. Dorian takes a step forwards. Another. Still watching him, assessing. “And do your family know about all this cavorting?”

Gal shrugs, looking away. “They think I should settle down. Marry. The usual. You?”

“My family? It’s the same story. They don’t like me… wanting the things that I want.” The last words are quieter.

Gal suddenly realises how close they are. Dorian watches him, intent. He swallows, and Dorian’s gaze falls to his mouth. It’s only when his fingers touch silk that he knows he’s reached out and taken hold of Dorian’s arm. He leans forwards, feeling Dorian move, too…

“Galahad!”

He winces, pulling back sharply and stepping away. She won’t have seen them - too far away for that, and they’re in the shadows - but he suddenly remembers every reason this is a bad idea.

Dorian’s voice is quiet. “Gal.” It might be an invitation, or just resignation.

Gal’s already stepping back, rubbing his neck awkwardly. He wants to apologise, but that would make it real or it would sound like a refusal, and he… doesn’t want to refuse. He wants to take Dorian’s face in his hands and -  _No_.

“I’ve got to - “ he manages, gesturing in the direction of his mother’s call, and then he turns and leaves.

Yes. He wants to kick himself.

 

 

That night, Gal’s in his room when he hears quiet footsteps. The whisper of silk. The door opening.

Dorian closes the door behind him, and then says, “Are we ever going to talk about this?” Agitation’s in every line of him.

Gal swallows, stepping back. “About what?” He knows. Of course he knows.

“This… whatever it is between us.” Dorian runs a frustrated hand through his hair. It’s strange to see him so unsettled. “There’s something, isn’t there? It’s not just me. I may have a vivid imagination, but I’m not sure it’s quite capable - ”

Gal can’t watch him flounder anymore, and kisses him. It’s an easier answer than words.

It’s gentle, only a moment. Dorian inhales sharply in surprise, and his fingers curl in the fabric of Gal’s shirt. Gal closes his eyes and savours the feel of it, the taste of it. That mouth is just as soft as he hoped it would be.

Then he remembers who he is and who  _they_ are, and what the fuck is he doing?  

He lets go of Dorian as if he’s been burned, backs away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Dorian stares at him and says, “Yes. You did.” Closes the distance between them and kisses him back.

It’s deeper this time. Dorian presses forwards, demanding, but there’s a tender edge to it. He kisses Gal like he’s tasting, learning, like he wants to know everything at once and revel in it. When he takes Gal’s bottom lip between his teeth, gently, Gal makes a low sound. Dorian pauses, grins fiendishly – Gal feels it - and then leans forwards to do it again. With that, Gal gives up on restraint; he deepens the kiss until his head’s spinning, and his hands are trembling as they grab for Dorian’s back. He tries to think but it’s impossible - everything feels too good, better than he imagined, and he needs…

By the time they part, Gal’s back is against the wall, his leg’s slipping between Dorian’s, and Dorian’s unbuttoning his shirt. “I thought… we were talking?” Gal tries, still breathless.

Dorian smiles. “We could. But this is more fun.”

“True.” Gal kisses him again, and then pauses.  _Oh, fuck_. He ignores Dorian’s low noise of protest and pulls away. “My mother is going to kill me.”

Dorian blinks in surprise and then grins. “If she finds out.”

Gal concedes that with a tilt of his head. “You’re going back to Tevinter in a month.”

“Then let’s make the most of the time we have.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you’ll probably respect me in the morning. You seem the type.”

“ _Dorian_ …”

“You want me. I want you. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“I… Can we at least do this on the bed?”

That wry, arrogant grin. Dorian says into his ear, “If you ask nicely.”

 

 

“So, is this a just for tonight thing, or a just for a month thing?” Dorian asks afterwards.

Gal hesitates. “What do you want it to be?”

“I’d like to make the most of you.” Dorian adds, with a wolfish grin, “Until I tire you out, at least.”

Laughing, Gal says, “That won’t happen. Trust me.”

Dorian pulls him closer, leans across to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his jaw and then murmurs against his skin, sounding a little amazed, “They don’t make them like you in the Imperium.”

“Really?”

Dorian draws back and says, the word smug, “Really.”

Maybe things are easier in the low light, or he’s too tired to think before he speaks, but Gal confesses, “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

Dorian looks surprised, then it softens to a smile that’s gentler than the others. More… real, somehow. “Likewise,” Dorian says quietly. He runs his thumb over Gal’s bottom lip and looks at him, bright-eyed.

Gal realises that he’s found the word:  _fascinated._ Dorian is  _fascinated,_ like he’s found something that enchants him and he wants to know more about it, savour it while he still can. Even from that first moment in the hall and the way he paused, or the way he said  _Gal_ \- tasting it on his tongue and seeming to enjoy the sound.

Wryness creeps back into Dorian’s expression. “At least, I’ve never met another nobleman with grass-stains on his knees.”

Gal sighs. “That was once.”

“A good three times, I think you’ll find. I like it. It’s… rustic.” Dorian glances aside, and Gal almost doesn’t hear it when he says, “Things are different here.  _Everything_ is different. There’s less freedom and yet… more. Less for mages, and yet… more for… someone like me.”

“You’re a mage,” Gal reminds him, gently.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Gal finds that he’s reaching up, cupping Dorian’s chin, until Dorian looks at him again. “I do.” He swallows. “Is it really that bad, where you’re from?”

“Not if you’re fond of social suicide. Or being assassinated.”

“…Fuck.”

“Yes. I wish I could. Or I wish I could be honest about it. The Imperium can’t decide what’s worse.” He sighs. “Now can we talk about something less depressing, before I set myself on fire?”

Gal pauses, and then grins. “How’d you learn to do that thing with your tongue?”

He thinks that he liked the sound of Dorian’s voice, but the sound of Dorian’s proper, genuine laughter, rough and tired and maybe fond, might be even better.

 

 

Gal wakes up and blinks in the morning light, wondering at the warm weight against his side. He looks, and realises that there’s a sleeping Tevinter mage wrapped around him.

Oh.

He remembers the previous night - and everything else. He waits for the panic or the regret, but it doesn’t come.

He touches the unfamiliar hand where it lies close to his ribs, inspecting it. He maps out what must be staff callouses, brushing a minor burn between thumb and forefinger. Spell gone awry, probably. Then he remembers an old theory that he’s never had the opportunity to prove. He closes his eyes, and when he focuses, he feels it: not quite a thrum but potential, a slight malleability in the Veil. There’s nothing sinister in it - instead there’s an undercurrent of calm control, the kind he’s felt before when he’s touched protective wards. The room does feel different.

“Do you always hold hands with unconscious bed partners?”

Gal feels the bed dip, and he opens his eyes. Dorian’s leaning on an elbow, looking at him with drowsy interest. That strong, warm hand wraps around his.

Gal mutters in embarrassment, “Answering a question.” He admits, “I’ve… never been with a mage before.”

With obvious smugness, Dorian drawls, “You have now.” Squinting at him, Dorian asks, “Is this a Chantry thing?”

“It’s a… me thing.” He examines their joined hands. “Your magic feels different from anyone else’s I’ve met.”

“Different?”

“Brighter. I can’t explain it.” He’s just embarrassing himself more. He looks to his side, and sees that Dorian’s watching him almost… fondly, with that bright fascination and the hint of a smile. He loses his words. “I… Hello.”

“Hello,” Dorian responds, amused.

Which is when there are footsteps in the corridor and his mother calls, “Galahad? Are you awake?”

Gal thinks of trying to explain Dorian, undressed and in this bed and with a lovebite dark on his collarbone, or the robes on the floor. The dread sets in.

Dorian’s already moving, springing from the bed and ducking down. Gal dazedly watches the robes and mage’s boots slide across the floor and seem to disappear.

“Mother,” he says, doing his best to sound calm.

Her footsteps pause outside the door, and he steels himself. She says, “We’ll be taking breakfast with our guests in an hour. I expect to see you there.” Then she’s walking away.

He waits until her footsteps have faded away. Breathes. Leans over. He hears a rustling, and then Dorian emerges from under his bed, clothes in hand.

Their eyes meet, and Dorian says pointedly, brushing dust from his hair, “I take it you do your own cleaning, too?”

“No, that’s the servants.” Gal exhales. “I’m sorry. I should have - “

Dorian says, climbing to his feet and grabbing his smalls, “No, I should have left. But… I was comfortable. Too comfortable.” He grins at Gal over his shoulder.

Gal’s still half-dazed. “Are… are those silk?”

“I prefer to travel in comfort,” Dorian replies archly.

Gal shakes himself.  _Focus._ He climbs out of bed and pulls on his trousers, muttering, “I need a bath.” He tries to ignore the rustle of clothing behind him, worried he’ll end up doing something stupid. He opens the door slightly, looks out into the corridor. Empty. “Coast’s clear.” He turns, uncertain.

Dorian’s mostly dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed and lacing his boots with quick, deft hands. “Good. I’ll return to the guest room before there are too many awkward questions. Lovely accommodations you have here, by the way. I particularly like the view.” He looks up, and his eyes linger on Gal.

Gal swallows. “I could say the same.” He takes a step forwards, stops. Wanting to touch or to question. Something. He wishes he had the time.

Dorian flashes a smile, knotting the laces and then rising to his feet. He hesitates on his way out of the room, looking into Gal’s eyes, and starts to say something. Changes his mind. “See you at breakfast,” he settles for eventually.

Gal swallows, and manages, “See you at breakfast.”

Then Dorian’s quietly slipping past, leaving and closing the door behind him.

Gal should be leaving, but he stands there, still trying to persuade himself last night wasn’t a dream. He runs a hand through his hair, wondering what he’s done. Wondering why, more than anything, he wants to do it again.

 

 

They do see each other at breakfast, but barely. The Orlesians are practically queueing to speak to the Tevinters - always with an air of giggling wariness, like they’re doing something they shouldn’t - and his mother catches up with him when he’s halfway through a bowl of porridge. She sits opposite him and asks, “I trust you’re making our guests welcome?”

He’s still got the spoon in his mouth. He nods awkwardly, swallowing. Hoping his thoughts don’t show on his face. Trying not to look down the table at a certain one of their guests, who’s stuck in a conversation with Elise du Chalons.

“I was worried you might settle for skulking in their general vicinity and thinking that was enough.” She picks daintily at a sliced apple. “Interaction is the key. Remember, we have our reputation riding on this. And you might learn something.” She smiles at him. “Your spirits seem improved, at least.”

“They… do?”

“It must be the combination of fresh air and culture.” She looks away, breaking an apple slice in half. “I… really do want you to be happy here, you know.”

His throat dries, and he wishes… A lot of things. That it could be different. That he hadn’t been sent to the bloody Chantry in the first place. That he could say  _I am._ “I know.”

The rest of the meal passes quickly - pleasantries and silences - and by the end of it he already needs to clear his head. They disperse, and he ends up walking out into the grounds. He keeps going until he can’t hear voices, until he’s in the woods.

He leans against the trunk of a tree, closes his eyes, and breathes. Tries not to think of hands on his skin, or whispered words in his ear, or desperate, broken Tevene in the dark. Fails.

“So…”

He turns, fear and hope rising in his chest at the same time.

Dorian approaches him slowly, cautiously, and starts, “Last night.”

The nerves are coming back to him now. He can barely think straight for memories of said night, and the man in front of him is still intimidatingly handsome. He tries to find the words. “Is… is this going to be awkward?”

“Why, should it be?” Dorian’s voice is airy, but there’s an edge to it. “Having regrets?”

He knows he should be worrying about his parents’ reputation, and his family name, and all the ways this could go wrong. Instead he tells the truth. “None.” He takes a step, loses his nerve.

“Good.” Dorian sighs. “I thought I’d never get you alone.” Then he strides forwards and pulls Gal into a fervent kiss.

Gal’s surprise only lasts a second before he closes his eyes and responds, pulling Dorian closer and kissing him fiercely.  _Finally._  It feels right, almost too good. He hasn’t felt like this in… The thought frightens him. He focuses instead on the man in his arms, the warmth and solidity of him.

They’re both breathing harshly when they break apart, and Dorian looks at him in surprise.

He manages a second, two, before he can’t help himself: he presses his mouth back to Dorian’s. He only pulls away when he has to breathe and he thinks his knees might give out. “You’re… I want…” he says, rough-voiced, before his words fail him. “No regrets,” he manages.

“Evidently,” Dorian replies, still breathless, a smile growing on his face. “I’d ask you to elaborate, but I suspect I’d end up with more mumbling.”

Gal thinks of the last time he did anything like this, let anyone stay more than a night. He thinks of hushed words in dark rooms and having his heart broken. He decides he’s sick of the mumbling and half-sentences, too. He plants his feet and says, as firmly as he can, “Still think you can tire me out?”

Surprise crosses Dorian’s face, and then he grins. “I’ll be happy to try.”

 

 

And he does try. The days fall into a pattern: they dodge the Orlesians, nod to the Fereldans occasionally, make excuses. Exchange brief greetings and heated glances in crowded rooms. Then they slip into quieter chambers, or into the grounds, or through the woods and to the stream only Gal and the odd gardener know about, and steal all the time together they can. Sometimes it’s to talk, and sometimes it ends with them exhausted and dazedly hunting for clothes.

Mostly it’s both. Dorian even starts conversations in the afterglow, asking questions with that bright interest. Gal likes to intersperse answers with kisses until Dorian’s laughing and losing his train of thought. Sometimes Gal’s drowsier, but he doesn’t mind - he always asks his fair share of questions too. He likes to hear that low voice, made lower by satisfaction or tiredness, detail history and architecture, or magic. It’s usually accompanied by a hand stroking over his skin or through his hair, an arm wrapping around him. He listens to stories about magisters and alti and floating temples, about Circles that aren’t prisons, and wonders.

 

 

A week and a half after they spent the night together, Gal reaches their usual meeting place to find Dorian leaning against a tree with a small, yellowing book in his hands; he turns back a page, examines something, reads on. Then he glances at Gal and says, “Look at this.”

Gal cautiously joins him, and realises that Dorian’s been interrogating something that looks like the old, battered copy of  _The Compleat Geneaologie_ that Gal got as a birthday gift when he was five.

Gal squints over Dorian’s shoulder. “What am I looking at?”

“You say these” - and Dorian points at various names - “were mages. And these” - more pointing - “all received templar training, yes?”

“Yes,” Gal says, uncertainly… and then he sees.

“It bears out your theory. There’s a clear correlation, at least in the Trevelyan line. It would point to bloodlines.”

Gal looks at him uncertainly. “A correlation doesn’t mean I’m right. Could be coincidence. It could just be mages run strongly with us.”

Dorian, still immersed in the sixteenth Trevelyan generation, says, “True. Or you could be right. Would that be so odd?”

The thought’s daunting. Gal just examines what he can see of the book and says, “Did you raid our library?”

“Less of a raid. More of a midnight stealth mission.”

Gal smiles at that. “Seems like dry reading. I’m not sure it was worth it.”

“What can I say? I like picking at theories.”

“My father gave that to me when I was five. Still don’t think I’ve got round to reading it.”

“A shame. There are selected biographies. I particularly enjoyed the tale of Elias Trevelyan, pig-farmer.”

“Pig… farmer?”

“His pork was quite renowned. To the point where it won him the hand of the fairest knight in the village, so on. She became your great-great-great grandmother.” Dorian looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Of course, now we know where you get your aptitudes for shovelling and swinging a sword.”

“Not at the same time,” Gal says. “What about your… great-great-great grandfather? Any stories?”

Dorian replies, casually, “Oh, yes. Septimus Bartimaeus… something-or-other. He was famed for both his pyromania and sleeping with half the Senate.”

Gal pauses, makes a show of looking Dorian up and down. “…I can see it.”

Dorian’s grin breaks through. “You’re not the first to say that. I’m not sure whether to be offended or gratified.”

Gal carefully takes  _The Compleat Geneologie_ and closes it, putting it on the ground. He pauses. “I’m not half the Senate.”

“You’ll do,” Dorian says, rakish and on the edge of a laugh. He kisses Gal slowly, like he’s savouring it.

Gal knows the feeling. He ends up on his back in the grass, under the canopy of bright green leaves and a laughing mage. Dorian looks down at him with that quiet, warm happiness again, like he isn’t pretending any more or maybe like he doesn’t need to, hands just resting on Gal’s shoulders.

He realises, suddenly, like a kick to the chest, how much he’s going to miss this. It’s been too long since anyone’s… He’s barely had this and he already wonders how he lived without it for so long. Nothing like it since the Chantry. He puts his hands on Dorian’s arms, running them up over silk, feeling the warmth of him: muscle and a bit of magic, under the skin.

Dorian half-grins at him, and he realises he’s been staring. Dorian says, wryly, “What?”

Gal tries to find the words and fails. Instead he drags Dorian closer, kissing him, legs falling apart as Dorian settles on top of him and returns the kiss just as desperately.

Dorian pauses and draws back. Gal’s about to ask what’s wrong when Dorian says breathlessly into his ear, “You don’t kiss like a pig farmer.”

Gal laughs, then, too surprised and too happy not to, his whole body shaking with it. When he opens his eyes, Dorian’s watching him steadily.

There are lines of fondness round Dorian’s eyes, but that bright fascination in them, too. His eyes flit like he’s drinking Gal in, and he says, “I was told to do research. And I wondered how someone as odd as you came to be.”

“Odd?”

Dorian presses a brief kiss to Gal’s chin, and says against his mouth: “Odd.” Another kiss. “Interesting, some might say.” Another. “Special.” That word’s softer, and Gal suddenly wishes he could see Dorian’s eyes. He has a feeling Dorian made sure he couldn’t, that maybe it wasn’t meant to be spoken.

Gal smiles, feeling its softness on his face. “People call you odd, too.”

Dorian looks up to grimace at the trees around them, amused. “They mean that differently.”

Gal says, “You’re not odd to me.” When Dorian looks back to him, questioning, he says, “I think you’re the sanest one here. Definitely the most interesting. But you… make sense. To me.” He feels the start of embarrassment and fights it down. “You always do.”

Dorian smiles, small and surprised. It takes him a second to come back with something, to shut away the earnestness. “And I’m the best-looking one here. Aside from…” He waves a hand, briefly. “…odd southern barbarians.” He shakes his head, and his eyes darken. “Gal,” he breathes.

Gal questions him with a look.

“You say the strangest things.” Dorian’s voice is soft. He leans down and presses his mouth to Gal’s, with that soft slowness again, breathing him in. “I want to hear more of them.”

Gal echoes, “ _Odd_ ,” saying it against Dorian’s lips, and feels the smile he gets in response.

He knows sex. But this… doesn’t feel like it’s just sex.

 

 

They’re at dinner that night, Gal trying to pretend he’s interested in what’s on his plate, when he hears a question, and looks up.

“How are you finding the Marches, Master Pavus?” one of the Fereldans says – an older, grey-haired teyrn.

Dorian takes a moment to answer. “They… have a certain indescribable appeal.” From across the table, his eyes meet Gal’s, briefly. They’re wry.

Gal nearly drops his fork, and looks back to his plate. It takes all the training he has to keep his face frozen, and stop colour rising to it.

He should probably be angry. He doesn’t know why he’s trying not to grin.

When he glances upwards, he can see Dorian’s own small, private smile, fast hidden behind a cup of wine.

 

 

“Tch.”

Gal looks away from the bookshelves and to the door, trying not to smile. If there’s something he’s found in the past couple of  weeks or so, it’s that Dorian has a knack for finding him. Especially when he’s in the library.

Dorian says, “Are you eyeing Heston? He may actually hate the Imperium more than most Orlesians. I assume you’re looking for an  _accurate_ history of us?”

He was, actually. Embarrassment creeps up on him. “I… might have been.”

“Anything specific?”

Gal thinks a second. Comes up with a decent list. “Culture. Wars. Magic.”

Dorian grins. “Our entire history, essentially. Wait there.”

He does, bemused, listening to Dorian’s footsteps head back out of the room and into the corridor.

When Dorian returns, it’s with a thick book bound in green leather. “Cornelius,” he says, offering it. “It gives a decent general overview.”

Gal takes it; it’s heavy enough he has to use both hands. He turns it over. “I’ve never seen this in the library. Think I’d remember it.”

“That’s because it’s mine,” Dorian says, too casually.

Gal stares at him, then back at the book.

“It’s honest. Far more than most of our histories. It was banned for several years. But it isn’t propaganda, either.” He steps forwards and puts a hand on the book, briefly, before it moves to Gal’s arm. “I suppose, despite appearances, I wanted you to know that we… haven’t destroyed everything we’ve touched.” He says that with a rueful half-smile.

Gal gently puts the book aside and moves closer, and he doesn’t know why his hand winds around Dorian’s, their fingers lacing together. It’s not something he does. Not normally. “Dorian…”

The door opens and they break apart.

Dorian’s checking the history shelves as if nothing’s happened, with that easy composure. “Lady Trevelyan,” he says, with a nod.

She steps through the door, and returns it, with the slightest smile. “Master Pavus.”

Dorian inclines his head Gal’s way, too. “Galahad,” he drawls, and then he’s sliding a book from the shelves and leaving with that same indifferent ease.

Gal’s mother watches him go. “What an odd young man,” she says, once he’s out of earshot.

“Mm,” is all Gal says. He finds himself drifting to pick up the book from the table. He opens it.

_An Unabridged History of the Imperium. R.N. Cornelius._

He runs a hand over the title, turning the page and starting to read. He realises after too long that he’s smiling faintly, and he’s read the introductory paragraph five times without knowing what it says. His fingers are too slow, moving with something like… tenderness.

He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.

 

 

Gal’s watching Dorian hunt for his shirt. It’s a good view. His skin’s almost bronze in the sunlight, muscle shifting beneath it. Gal didn’t know mages could look like this.

“You aren’t lying on it, are you?” Dorian asks. He turns to Gal, and pauses, seeming surprised. Maybe it’s something in Gal’s expression.

“Don’t think so.”

“You realise I’ll have to check,” Dorian says, with the hint of a laugh. He shifts to lean over Gal, and grins down at him.

“You’re… checking for your shirt,” Gal says, sceptically.

“Not exactly,” Dorian admits. He sighs. “You know, I’ve never had anyone look at me the way you do.” Dorian puts his hand under Gal’s chin and kisses him like it’s a gift - softly, lingeringly.

It’s the kind of kiss Gal hasn’t had since before he left the Chantry - since a man he was in love with. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, his hands moving to Dorian’s waist.

“That’s the terrible thing,” Dorian says afterwards. “You’re too interesting just to bed. I’m… growing quite fond of you.”

Gal swallows, because his heart is in his throat. “Took the words out of my mouth.”

Dorian looks away. “It’ll all be different when I get home, of course. There’s no time for fondness. There’s barely time for  _words._ It all ends in the bedroom.”

“And that’s not what you want?”

“Not always,” Dorian replies.

“You could do it on the quiet…”

“I don’t want to be  _quiet._ And I have the feeling you don’t want to either.”

“You’re right,” Gal says. “I understand it, I just… Who’d be ashamed of you?”

Dorian blinks in surprise, his mouth opening. Then he swallows. “Well, you’re not exactly shouting this from the rooftops.”

“Neither are you.” Gal notes. His throat’s dry, and he tries to put it the right way. “You’re leaving. If you weren’t…” He takes Dorian’s face between his hands. “If you weren’t, it’d be different. I promise.”

Dorian’s voice is low, and it sounds incredulous. “The worst thing is… I believe you.”

Gal grins, and then loses his train of thought, because Dorian’s mouth is covering his. The breeze, and the sound of the stream. The man smiling at him, and the warm skin under his hands. He tells himself that he can have this, even if it won’t be for long.

 

 

They nearly make it.

It’s two days before Dorian’s due to leave, and Gal only came to try and find him. He’s both thankful he heard enough not to come into Dorian’s room, and wishing these doors were thicker.

“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There’s a tremble in Dorian’s voice, hidden under the icy calm.

That sharp Tevinter accent. Dorian’s father. “ _Male_ , and  _soporati._ And yet you still persist. Is this an attempt to spite us?”

“No. It’s nothing to do with you. And there’s nothing between us. It’s simple politeness, nothing more.”

“One of the Orlesians saw you by the water. With him.”

Gal winces, a hand to his forehead, and steps backwards as quietly as he can.

He told him. It had to happen. There was a reason they couldn’t do this. It was always going to -

“I… No.”

“You’re trying to protect him. Why? If this is some sort of foolish infatuation…”

Gal looks up sharply at that. There’s something under his ribs he doesn’t recognise, caged and strong. Feels… He doesn’t let it be hope.

Dorian sounds like hope’s the last thing he can find right now. His voice is dismal. “It doesn’t  _matter_. We’re  _leaving_. We’re leaving, and… it doesn’t matter.”

He’s right. It doesn’t. It shouldn’t.

The magister’s voice is harsh. “I’d hoped the rumours were only  _rumours,_ but now I see – you can’t even be  _discreet_ about this… habit…”

Gal remembers  _social suicide,_ and the terrified bleakness in Dorian’s eyes. He steps back further, knowing that he shouldn’t be hearing this. It isn’t for him.

He starts walking, and doesn’t stop, until he’s downstairs and nearly in the grounds, and the servant entrance is in sight -

His mother intercepts him in the corridor. She says, smiling, “A word, please, Galahad?”

He stops, rocks back on his heels. He nods. He follows her slowly, thinking of the stream and the way Dorian’s father  _spoke_ to his son… He shoves that out of his head. Not a thought he’s having here, when she can see him.

He realises they’re going to her study. Oh, fuck.

When she closes the door behind them, her eyes are all cold fury. He takes a step back before he can stop himself.

She says quietly, “The Tevinter boy.”

He tries to make his face blank, to clear his mind the way he was taught. “What?”

“I had hoped it was simple friendship, I’d always thought that the Imperium didn’t hold with that sort of thing, but evidently not. And to think I was actually pleased that you might have made a new acquaintance and broadened your horizons. Maker, I look like a fool.”

He says nothing. Anything he does say will be incriminating.

“I heard the Orlesians in the hallway. They were  _laughing,_ Galahad, as if it was some dinner-party triviality. One of them saw you with him.”

He feels the blood drain from his face, and he knows she must see it, too. He’d wonder who, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too late for that to matter.

“Do you think I’m blind? All the sneaking off together and the doe eyes… Haven’t you embarrassed us enough? Consorting with not just men but  _maleficarum.”_

“He’s not a maleficar _.”_

“And how would you know? It doesn’t matter what he tells you - “

“I know because of the templar training.”

She pauses, and stares at him. “You’ve never forgiven me for that, have you?”

“He’s a good man.”

She scoffs. “You think that now. He’s on his best behaviour because you’re infatuated, and he wants to keep it that way. He’ll show his true colours soon enough.”

“He already has. And  _he’s a good man._ ”

Her lips thin, and she looks away, shaking her head. “You’ve already embarrassed us enough. Is it any good telling you to keep away from him?“

His chest aches. Dorian’s parents already know, so she’s got nothing to hold over him, but… Dorian. He remembers  _social suicide._ “No. No good.”

“That is, unless  _he_ wants to keep away from  _you._ I doubt he’ll be pleased at this development.”

He swallows. “That’s his business.”

“Hm. For now. He’s lucky I haven’t decided to send his family right back onto a ship for abusing our hospitality like this.”

“It wasn’t like - “

“It’s probably because they only have, what, two days here left as it is? But I’ll say it all the same: keep away from him.” She steps forward, examining him, eyes sharp. “Would I even know if you’d been ensorcelled? You’ve always made the wrong choice. This wouldn’t be out of character.”

“It’d be out of character for him _._ I told you.”

“Go. If you’ve decided to be an embarrassment to us, you’ll leave this room _,_ not stand there and smirk at me as you destroy our alliances.”

“I wasn’t - “

“ _Leave,_ Galahad.” Her eyes are sharp as ice, bluer that way.

He does. He exhales as he closes the door behind him, stiffening his spine so he won’t sway on his feet. He can hear her moving, but only the sounds of her straightening her papers. She won’t be out for a while. He remembers the aftermath of every other bollocking he’s had.

He shuts his eyes, tries to make himself move, and feels a hand close round his.

His eyes fly open, and Dorian half-smiles at him, brief and sad, before putting a finger to his lips. Dorian pulls him a few feet down the corridor, into a laundry room, and leans round him to close the door.

Gal opens his mouth -

And then Dorian’s kissing him, sweet and deep, pressing him against the door. Dorian pulls back and breathes, his forehead against Gal’s, panting in the silence.

Gal says roughly, head still swimming, “What was that for?”

Dorian just looks at him, bright-eyed and breathless, still looking startled. Like he’s not sure what he’s doing himself.

And Gal realises. “How long were you there?”

“Long enough. I heard all of it. You need to reinforce your doors. At home we’d have some sort of silencing ward, but I suppose my parents thought templars would descend upon them if they even tried - “

“I heard.” Gal blurts it into the space between them, and Dorian’s shoulders tense. “Your father… I heard. Your parents know?”

“They do.” Dorian exhales, a half-sigh that Gal feels against his face, and steps back. “That said, me being detrimental to their reputation is hardly new. This is just one more… inconvenience. But you…” He says, with the hint of a strained laugh, “Your mother would make an excellent magister.”

Gal can’t even laugh at that; it’s too true. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for? I haven’t had a lay that good since… oh, probably Qarinus.”

“ _Dorian.”_

Dorian looks away, tensing. Then his brows draw together, and he looks back, searches for Gal’s gaze, his jaw tense like it costs him. “It’s not you. It’s me. If it wasn’t you, it would be anyone else I… pursued things with. Back home, the expectations – in order to play the dutiful magister-to-be, it would be… no dissent, no pleasure, no honesty. All that I am… I keep pretending I can be both. That I can somehow  _balance_ this.” He glances aside and snorts in disgust, fingers curling and uncurling where he leans against the door. “I keep hoping that I can  _lie.”_

“Dorian…”

“Good men don’t do that, Gal.” Dorian looks up, eyes dark and pained.

“They do if they’re fucking terrified.” Gal pauses, and adds, amused despite himself, “At least I’m not the only one eavesdropping any more.”

Dorian kisses him again, and breathes against his lips, “Thank you.”

Gal remembers those words in the garden, from before this. “I just told the truth.”

Dorian laughs, sounding incredulous, and says with a shake of his head, “No. No, you didn’t.” Then he sighs, and takes himself out of Gal’s arms. He addresses the floor. “Gal, have I made your life more difficult?”

Gal laughs at that, a huff of air. “No more than usual. Nothing to do with you. They’ve been trying to shut me up for months.  They’re going to try to send me back soon, if this is like before.”

He’s about to say something else, but the words die at the appalled look on Dorian’s face.

Dorian says, “If things are that bad… why don’t you just  _leave?_ Before they can send you back to that bloody -  _”_

Gal snorts. “Why don’t you?”

“I  _am._ I’m going to the Circle, and that will at least defer some of the awkward questions.”

Gal says, gently, “And I’m leaving, when I can.”

“I know it’ll make no difference, I’ll be back in Minrathous, but… promise me. Lie to me, at least.”

“I promise.”

Dorian exhales. “Thank you.”

Gal tries to find his voice. “This… isn’t keeping away from me.”

Dorian pins Gal with his gaze, and there’s something hushed, pleased in his voice when he says, “I don’t want to. I - ”

The door opens. They freeze, but there’s just a maid on the other side of it, who jumps when she sees them.

Gal remembers her; she’s been quiet enough when he’s been indiscreet before. “Wren,” he says.

She inclines her head. “Ser.” Then she looks to Dorian, and clearly wonders whether to call him ‘magister.’ “…Ser. Your father is looking for you.”

“Oh, I bet he is,” Dorian mutters. “Thank you,” he says to Wren. He looks back to Gal, opens his mouth. Closes it again. Then he turns and leaves, the frustration written on him.

Gal watches him go, and then nods to Wren, going in the opposite direction. He needs some air. He needs a shovel in his hands.

 

 

Somehow, they end up busy through the next day. His mother always has a job for him, and when she doesn’t, the Pavuses are in corridors, politely requesting Dorian’s company and watching them, hawk-eyed.

Their eyes meet, sometimes, and Gal can see the pained frustration in Dorian’s face, too. He can almost feel Dorian’s hands on his skin.

Time’s slipping away. It’s sliding through their fingers, and Gal curses when he watches the sun set and realises he hasn’t been able to speak to Dorian once past a quiet “pass the salt.”

He supposes he’d better get used to the emptiness next to him again, the lack of amused questions. This is what it’ll be like soon enough.

Morning dawns bright and sunny. It’s a good day, and it’s the last one they’ve got. He tries to slip away early on, ducking down a quiet corridor that leads in a roundabout way to the guest rooms, and comes face-to-face with his mother.

She smiles at him and says pleasantly, like she’s talking about the weather, “He’s packing his things. Making fine progress, too.”

He swallows.

Her smile doesn’t fall. “Haven’t you shown the Fereldans the market yet?”

 

 

He’s shaking with suppressed fury and frustration when he comes back to his room that night. He tries to meditate and think of anything else but the barely-there gap of a few doors. Or the way Dorian looks at him, when he thinks he can’t see it. He tries to focus -

The door opens softly, with a click. Dorian slips through, his eyes not falling from Gal’s until he turns and closes it, then presses a palm against it. There’s a half-whisper of magic, and Gal feels the Veil… thin, bend. There’s a tingling on his tongue.

“What - ?” he starts, quietly.

“The nearest thing I could manage to making you a lock.”

“I’ve never seen - “ he manages, dumb.

“No, it makes sense they wouldn’t teach that one in your Circles.” Dorian’s voice is casual on the surface, but there’s a tremor there, buried deep. “You remember the silence wards I mentioned?”

Gal nods.

“Some of those, too. I thought it might be useful for what I’m about to do.”

Dorian crosses the room and then his mouth is on Gal’s. He pulls Gal tight against him with a soft, desperate sound. Gal responds, easily, sighing with the relief of it, and feels Dorian grab his shirt. He steps back, lets it be pulled over his head, and starts to work on the fastenings of Dorian’s robes. He can barely stop to look – that requires moving away, not kissing Dorian, and he can’t -

“Nearly four weeks,” Dorian mutters, “and I already miss having my hands on you,  _constantly_. What have you done to me?”

“Could ask you the same,” Gal says.

Dorian takes his mouth again, shoving his clothes aside with trembling hands, and he doesn’t have time to think. They barely make it to the bed, and the laughter of before is gone. They’re white-knuckled, shaking, and Gal tries to forget tomorrow in the taste of Dorian’s skin and the way Dorian looks at him. It feels too much like a goodbye. Like they’re trying not to let go of each other.

Even afterwards, Dorian doesn’t leave, just collapses to lie beside Gal and looks at the ceiling. He’s unusually silent, until his eyes meet Gal’s in the half-darkness, and he speaks. “Considering I’m leaving tomorrow and we barely know each other, I’m… stopping myself from saying something very stupid.”

Gal looks back, wide-eyed, his heart jumping into his throat. “Me too.” His voice is rough, and he takes Dorian’s arm and repeats, “Me too,” seeing the surprise dawn on Dorian’s face.

One or both of them moves and then they’re kissing - deeply, desperately, trying to delay the inevitable. Dorian’s hand runs up Gal’s back, presses him closer. They cling to each other. By the time it’s over, Gal’s got an arm round Dorian’s waist and it’s become more of an embrace.

Dorian starts, “I could write…”

“But you won’t. And that’s all right.”

“I…”

Gal rubs a thumb over Dorian’s cheekbone and repeats, “It’s all right.”

Dorian shakes his head, swallowing. “I don’t know why I - As I said, I barely know you.”

Gal smiles slightly. “Same. But I’m glad I met you.”

Dorian sighs. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

Gal nods.

“Then let’s use the time we have left.”

Dorian kisses him, but Gal draws back to say, “Stay here tonight.”

Dorian snorts. “Why not? It’s not as if we have anything to lose.”

“I want to have you as long as I can,” Gal admits, without meaning to.

“I know.” Dorian’s voice is quiet. “Believe me, I know.”

Their goodbyes – the real ones, not the cold things they’ll have to give in front of their parents, for the good of an alliance - last for a long time. Gal doesn’t mean to fall asleep, tries not to, but it happens eventually. It creeps up on him in the space between Dorian’s words, when Dorian’s talking about the architecture in Minrathous, the way history’s in every stone and how he’d like that, and somehow that ends up being about how Marchers hold their forks the wrong way. He doesn’t know. He just knows that Dorian’s tucked round him, magic and warm skin and the soft, low sound of words, fond and wry, and it’s enough.

 

 

He wakes up alone, and looks around. There’s nothing in his room but a warm bed. Fuzzily, he sees a note, left on top of the Cornelius where it was lying on top of his bedside table. He reaches out, and sees looping, fine handwriting.

_Gal -_

_I'm sorry, and thank you._

_Still odd. And you should keep your promise._

The wards on the door are broken, through will and distance. He knows.

When he makes it downstairs, his mother informs him gently that their guests departed an hour and a half ago. She hadn’t wanted to disturb him after the exhaustion of the past few days.

He nods.

She doesn’t press it. She doesn’t even seem to understand.

She doesn’t ask whether he wanted to say goodbye. It doesn’t matter to her. Besides, he already has. He presses his palm to note in his pocket, and the aftertaste of magic lingers on his tongue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**redcliffe. drakonis, 9:42 dragon.**

Ten years pass when he isn’t looking. Some time during them, he doesn’t die in the Conclave explosion, wakes up with a mark on his hand, and eventually ends up walking angrily out of a meeting with a magister, probably straight into another trap.

He half-recognises the magic first. It hits him when he opens the Chantry doors, strong even under the wrongness of the rift and the torn Veil: that bright sweetness, cast with a flourish. It feels familiar, almost like - It stirs old, faded memories in the back of his mind. He can’t work out why.

But then the mage turns, and Gal… Gal would know that voice anywhere. “Good, you’re finally here. Help me close this, would you?”

Gal’s suddenly glad for the helmet, uncertain what his face must look like. He barely has time to think about it when he’s throwing himself at the demons, keeping out of the way of fire and glyphs, closing the rift.

As the sound of the explosion fades, he tries to make himself focus. Pulls off his helmet.

He turns to speak, but the words fade as he looks into familiar, curious grey eyes. There are changes - the hair’s shorter; there are new lines, and a moustache that shouldn’t look good - but the eyes are the same. So is the tall, proud bearing and the sense of amused defiance. If anything, he seems… more certain. And the years have been kind. The man in front of him - leaning on a staff, wary underneath the smirk - is more handsome than he remembered, older and better for it.

He wonders if Dorian even remembers him. That question’s answered when Dorian blinks, stares at him and says quietly, “…Ah. Hello, Gal.”

“Been a while,” Gal says quietly, listening to his companions tense.

“It has rather.” A smile of disbelief grows on Dorian’s face. “I like the warpaint. Very Avvar, of course.”

Something like surprise rises in his chest, and Gal half-grins. “The moustache isn’t bad either.” It falls, and he suddenly deeply hopes that Dorian isn’t tangled up with the Venatori. “But why are you here?”

“Herald…” Cassandra says behind him, a question and a warning in her voice.

“I hear my old mentor’s cooked up some scheme to restore Tevinter glory. Odd, seeing as he never seemed invested in that before. But since he’s using the magic  _I_  helped create to do it…” The fury clears from Dorian’s face, and he tilts his head. “I have a vested interest.”

So that’s what he did, after the Circles. Gal tries not to focus on that, or to think that it sounds like he’s only got more brilliant. Or the disappointment in Dorian’s eyes when he talks about Alexius, the way there’s something older and sadder there than the boy he met. He says, “Same. I’d like the world not to end. And I’d like to get this thing off my hand.” He swallows.

“Then we have a common goal.” Dorian grins, eyes warm when they meet Gal’s. Still too fucking handsome.

“You know this… magister?” Cassandra asks, still sounding like she’s barely resisting sticking a sword through one or both of them.

“Altus. Not a magister,” Dorian says, cheerful but firm. “Calling us all that makes you sound like barbarians.”

Some things haven’t changed, Gal thinks. “He’s… an old friend.” Dorian’s eyes meet his at that, with the same curious assessment as always, and he swallows. “And he’d be… valuable.”

Dorian tips him a half-grin. “You say the nicest things.”

Fuck. Gal tries not to pay any attention to that, because it’s been ten years and he’d forgotten - “You’re a strong mage. You know Alexius, and you know what he’s doing.” He doesn’t know why he adds, “And I ought to give you your book back.”

Dorian blinks, and then smiles, softer and more genuine, like they’re standing in an Ostwick garden. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I rather think you should.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This AU came from a number of things. Mostly it was a conversation between @musicalheart168 and I. I mentioned that the Gal we saw at the beginning of Shield Raised has been a little damaged and is quite different from his younger self, at which point she said that she’d quite like to see younger Gal. From that came _sans peur et sans reproche,_ but it also got me thinking that I ought to do more with the idea. That thought combined with the realisation that there were a lot more parallels between Gal and Dorian’s stories than I’d first thought - angry young men trapped by station and desperately kicking out against it, so on - and I figured it would be interesting to see them meet during that time in their lives. (And instantly I had that scene in the hallway and went, “Oh, shit, I’m going to have to write this, aren’t I?”) 
> 
> The other thing, again, was the idea of love at first sight and whether it’s possible, and also of those brief summer romances and first loves, because I’d never written that kind of story. So here we get a freshly post-escape Gal who’s alienated and in pain, with his heart quite recently broken from his first proper relationship, and a Dorian who hasn’t yet been betrayed by his family, is less jaded and has all of his older self’s hotheadedness with a little less temperance. That almost reversed their usual dynamic, actually: you get a warier, more cagey Gal who’s a little snarkier but also more frightened, and a Dorian who’s less afraid to admit he’s in love because he doesn’t yet know how much he has to lose. Ow. Throw in a dash of forbidden romance for flavour. 
> 
> It seemed right to bookend it with their canon first meeting, to offset the sadness of the parting and to give some hope. Also because I was faintly amused by Gal’s “for fuck’s sake, how can he have actually got hotter?” reaction. You can probably guess how it plays out, even ten years later. Think Inquisition with a few more complications. And a lot of awkwardness. "An old friend. Yes. Totally platonic. Definitely never slept together. ...What?"
> 
> ...And yes, I got the title from a Lana Del Rey song. Not very Thedosian, but it was about the concept and hey, I'm just some fanfic writer on the internet.


End file.
